


Not Such a Chore

by randi2204



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: 2K Round-up Challenge, M/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris thinks today he'll just catch up on some necessary chores.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Such a Chore

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** These boys belong to MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy.

Even before Chris opened his eyes, he knew it was late, but still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.  The bed was warm, and when he moved, he felt the slide of flesh against flesh telling him he wasn’t alone.  And _that_ was worth waking up to.

 

He rolled over to drape an arm across his bedmate, and the morning sun stuck him full in the face, turning the world red behind his eyelids.  He tilted his head back into cooler darkness before he dared open his eyes.

 

The way the sun streamed through the curtainless window told Chris it really was long past time to get up.  He was awake and rested and there were chores to be done…

 

The problem with all of that was Ezra.  He trailed his fingers over the bare skin of Ezra’s side where he lay, curled up like a cat in the sunlight warming Chris’s bed.  Ezra didn’t even twitch at the touch, just kept breathing deep and even.  _You’re a bad influence,_ he told Ezra silently, lip curling in a smile.  _Don’t want to do much of anything except lay here with you._

 

He indulged himself for a few more minutes, enjoying the way the light played over Ezra’s pale skin, how it brought out red and gold in his tousled hair.  But the knowledge of the things he had to do kept tugging at him, and at last he sighed and rolled reluctantly from the bed, away from Ezra’s welcome warmth.

 

 _At least I’ve got some time before he’ll wake up,_ Chris thought, pulling on his clothes.  He made his way through the cabin as silently as he could, and stepped outside.  The sunlight streamed over him, and he stretched, letting the heat of it soak in just for a moment.

 

Then he started tallying up everything he needed to do.  All his stock was out on the range, with just his mount and Ezra’s in the corral.  His horse watched him, ears pricked, as he approached.  As he reached the corral, he hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder at the cabin.  _Really should go and check on the herd,_ he thought, hand on his gelding’s neck.  The horse nudged him, bringing him back to himself, and he smiled.  With an affectionate pat, he pushed off the fence and put down some feed for the two horses.   Then he returned to the cabin just long enough to grab his gun belt and tack box.

 

Chris pulled the door shut, wincing at the squeak of the hinge and knowing he still wouldn’t oil it.  He settled on one of the chairs on the porch and worked off his boots.  They were dirty and a bit worn but were still in good condition.  _Just need a little cleaning… and maybe a bit of polish,_ he thought, unbuckling the spurs.  The leather straps that held his spurs on were worn, as muddy as his boots, and the studs decorating the top were dull with dirt.  Dried mud caked the rowels from yesterday’s slog through the rain.

 

He treated his boots first, brushing off what little mud still clung to them before getting out a rag and the oil from his tack box.

 

In the city, he knew, there were boys who did this all day long for a few pennies, who had boxes of polish and boot black and could be done in just a few minutes.  Chris had always preferred to do it himself; there was a certain kind of satisfaction in the way his boots and spurs and gun belt gleamed, how supple the leather felt when he pulled it on, the knowledge that his gun would never get caught on his holster when he needed to pull it.  So he didn’t mind doing this when it was necessary – and after yesterday’s drenching rain, it was necessary today.

 

He’d pulled his boots back on – sitting outside in his socks was a funny feeling – and was nearly finished cleaning and oiling his second spur when the creak of the door opening startled him a little.  “Mornin’,” he said, twisting to smile over his shoulder.  “Didn’t expect you up just yet.”

 

Ezra stood in the doorway, blinking in the sunlight.  He wore his shirt and trousers, but the shirt was unbuttoned and his suspenders hung loosely against his legs.  His feet were bare.  “So it would appear,” he said, drawl thick from slumber.  “Don’t let me distract you from what you’re doin’,” he went on, and Chris noticed that his gaze was sharp, intent, for all that his voice was sleep-rough.

 

It was puzzling enough that Chris studied him for a moment, trying to decide if Ezra’s words were a sarcastic demand for attention or if he was serious.  Ezra leaned one shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed, a smile hinting in the dimples at the corners of his mouth.

 

That was enough for Chris; for whatever reason, Ezra meant what he said, so he turned back to his task.  He finished up polishing the studs on the spur, then set it next to its mate.  The rowels shone clean, not a bit of mud to be found, and the leathers glistened with the oil he’d applied.

 

Next was his gun belt.  He took his gun from the holster and set it to one side, then started rubbing oil into the leather.

 

He couldn’t forget he had an audience, though; Ezra’s eyes burned into the back of his neck, and the intensity of his gaze made warmth settle inside him.  _I wonder,_ he thought quite suddenly, _if this is how Ezra feels when I watch him play poker across the saloon_. The warmth morphed into a familiar heat as he recalled how he liked to concentrate on Ezra’s hands, watching avidly as they shuffled and dealt the cards to the other players.

 

“I thought,” Ezra said, after a silence longer than Chris had expected, “that you’d already be out ridin’, lookin’ after your herd.”

 

He paused again, glanced back over his shoulder.  “Had other things to do first,” he replied.

 

“And I count myself most… fortunate that you did.”  Ezra’s voice had not yet lost the burr of sleep. _Or maybe,_ Chris realized, _that’s_ not _why it sounds so rough…_

 

That heat flared again, but he forced it down, stayed focused on the task he’d set himself, because it needed doing… though he willed his hands to move faster than they normally might.

 

Ezra noticed, of course; as soon as he was done polishing the last silver concho on his gun belt, Ezra was there beside him, bare feet silent on the boards.  “If you are finished,” he said, voice low, long fingers hovering over Chris’s gun, “perhaps you will allow me to… assist you to resume your accoutrements.” Before Chris could say a word, though, Ezra picked up the spurs and knelt down beside the chair.

 

Chris swallowed hard, staring down at Ezra’s head as he bent to his task.  Ezra on his knees was a heady thing; it sent a shiver of sensation down his spine, made him yearn wildly for something he couldn’t quite name.  And it didn’t matter that Ezra’s hands were on his boot, because when he glanced up, the look in those green eyes was as intimate as if they were in bed.

 

Ezra settled the yoke of the spur into the faint grooves it had worn into the leather of his boot, then buckled it firmly into place, running his fingers over the studs of the strap before flicking the rowel and jingle bobs to make them chime.

 

He strapped on Chris’s other spur, and by the time he was done, Chris’s chest felt so tight he could barely breathe.  Unable to stop himself, he reached out and slid his hand along Ezra’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

 

Ezra looked up, and his eyes were dark, cheeks flushed.  His hands still rested on the top of Chris’s foot, fingers stroking restlessly against the leather.

 

Chris knew that look, knew it well.  And just now, having watched Ezra’s long fingers manipulating the straps and buckles of his spurs… “Inside,” he ordered hoarsely, and shoved his gun into the holster.

 

Ezra pushed himself to his feet, licking his lips.  “Your horses…”

 

“Think they can wait a little longer,” he retorted, and stood, slinging his gun belt over his shoulder.  Ezra didn’t argue any further, just stepped back over the threshold, eyes on him every moment.

 

The door creaked again when Chris shoved it closed behind him, but he didn’t care.

 

***

February 17, 2013

**Author's Note:**

> Between us somehow, Mendax and I came up with the idea for this, and she was kind enough to let me write it.


End file.
